divided at the heart
by CrookedSpoon
Summary: Details that don't quite add up, two fronts and a lifeline. Spoilers for Reichenbach.


**Title**: divided at the heart  
**Characters:** Sherlock, Mycroft, John  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count:** 3005  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for Reichenbach.  
**Disclaimer**: Standard disclaimers apply.  
**Notes**: Written for the the commfest at the LJ comm sherlock_bbc

* * *

He could attribute his own silence to the nerves, the thrill of converting potential to kinetic energy and the shock of zeroing it again, knocking all intelligible thought out of him. Fragments of never-spoken dialogue lined up with scenes of the past minutes, hours, days, replaying them over and over and over again – pause, rewind, slow motion – to find out what he missed.

"I will never get the bloodstains out of my coat," was the first thing Sherlock said, picking at the item in question, when he entered Mycroft's study.

"Tell me everything," his brother said, the moment he laid eyes on Sherlock. Tired eyes that flicked to the display of his mobile, before he placed it next to the brandy glass and empty decanter. Despite the attention he was training on Sherlock, the strained muscles around his eyes and mouth slackened minutely.

"Don't tell me your surveillance team hasn't done their job of detailing every step I take," Sherlock couldn't help but comment. He had become too used to being tailed and imagining it missing added a sour taste to his mouth. It might imply that Mycroft had stopped caring.

Unimportant now, he thought, before reconstructing every sight, every scent, every syllable – from the cologne Moriarty had worn (Creed, fresh and floral, a composition of iris, lemon, violet with a touch of sandalwood) over his changes in expression (bored, disappointed, playful, challenging, curious, exalted) to the gun he had toted (Beretta 92FS Inox, 9mm, fifteen plus one, chrome-lined barrel and slide, aluminium grip frame) and the sound he had made when he crumpled (no data; gunshot-overridden). Mycroft might as well have stood next to them.

The further into his retelling he dove, the more Mycroft's features drained of expression. That closed-off look set his alarm bells ringing. Sherlock might have guessed his brother was taken aback by the way Moriarty put an end to their rivalry, but Sherlock never guessed. Something about what he had said was incongruent with what Mycroft knew.

His brother exhaled against his threaded hands, avoiding eye contact, as though debating whether to share his information or not.

"There was no body," he finally said.

Sherlock's eyes widened for the fraction of a second. "Say that again."

"Before your arrival, one of my men reported the presence of your phone and a puddle of blood, but no body."

How? Moriarty was dead; he could not have risen again and walked away himself, unless— Of course, someone must have been observing them to determine whether to shoot or not. "Someone must have taken it, then."

Mycroft now sported his skeptical face. "Are you certain he is dead?"

"I was there, Mycroft."

"Did you check his body? I cannot recall an instance in your report that mentioned it."

Sherlock threw up his hands. "He pulled the trigger on himself. Survival rates are pretty slim when people can see the inside of your skull. Besides, how could he have faked his own death two feet in front of me without my noticing?"

"Not verifying was still an oversight."

Sherlock's mouth twisted. He realized his mistake now. "It must have been the shock."

Going by his own statements, Moriarty would prefer death to living in boredom without an equal to play with. Sherlock had foreseen every step except this one. In none of his scenarios had he considered Moriarty to celebrate his presumed victory over Sherlock with his own death, sacrificing his own king by plucking it from the chess board to leave Sherlock's pieces vulnerable to his bishop.

"It doesn't make sense. Why would Moriarty get rid of his own body? It would have been so convenient for the actor I supposedly hired to disappear as well, because he talked. My final act of revenge. Well, apart from the fact that he took care of shooting himself for me. But the combined brilliance of the Yard would certainly have shed light on that mystery as well."

"He could have planned to make us consider the possibility that he might still be alive."

"Yes. Even if he did not guess your connection in this, he would still have wanted you to tremble in fear of his next attack."

"You believe Moriarty's men will be continuing his operations?" Mycroft asked.

"I can only hope they will. Even the tiniest clue might help me find them."

"You weren't at the funeral."

The funeral. A quiet little affair of a few select souls. Molly, who couldn't lift her handkerchief from her face; Mrs. Hudson, who was unable to console her; Lestrade, who kept staring blankly at the coffin. They had refrained from announcing it in the papers to keep the media and the lookers-on away.

"Very observant of you, doctor. Indeed I was not," Mycroft said and turned the page of his newspaper, not much heeding John's presence.

"And... may I ask why not?" John could not help impatience seeping into his voice. He had enough of his gliding around questions, of tiptoeing around the man, or playing after his rules to be allowed the necessary details.

"I was busy," Mycroft stated.

"Don't say 'with more important things' or I'm gonna punch you."

Mycroft peered over the top of his newspaper for the first time. "Violence doesn't suit you, John."

"Would it kill you to at least once behave like a human being?" How could he be so unaffected? Even with all their resentments between them, Mycroft had always maintained to care about Sherlock. John and his sister bore old grudges too, but he wouldn't be able to continue life as though nothing had happened if Harry died.

"You ask too much."

"Don't you care a whit about your brother's death? I thought you worried about him. Well, congratulations. Now you don't need to anymore."

Mycroft finished the paragraph, exhaled, then folded up his newspaper.

"John. You are grieving. What you are saying is irrational."

"Darn right I am grieving. Why aren't you? Is this some Holmesian family trait? Not giving a rat's arse for the lives of others, not even that of your own brother? Does that not mean anything to you?"

Mycroft licked his down-turned lips, a clear sign of displeasure. "I would be much obliged if you refrained from reminding me."

That stopped John short for a moment. Straightening, he noticed for the first time how tense he had been, as though he had anticipated a fight. As though he not only considered decking Mycroft, but saw the opportunity coming.

He had intended to note that ignoring uncomfortable truths didn't make them easier to bear, but he wondered whether it would be right to say it. Some people don't like to talk things out and forcing them actually made it worse for them. So why did he insist Mycroft behave like an ordinary human being, one John could understand? Maybe he had been wrong about him all along, maybe this was Mycroft's way of coping.

Although John had learned to read Sherlock, he wasn't fluent in Mycroft yet. They might be related, and similar in some aspects, but Mycroft was different – just as complex, but more cryptic. The difference between Italian and Latin, perhaps.

"I think I better go now." John turned for the door, in measured steps, giving Mycroft a last opportunity to explain himself. His fingers curled around the handle, when Mycroft's voice stopped him.

"John?"

He kept his back to Mycroft, but listened. If what he said displeased him, John wouldn't waste another second in leaving.

"I could not have borne to see my brother interred a murderer and a fraud."

John was glad for the declining resonance; the media had shifted their attention elsewhere. In the beginning escorting Mrs. Hudson back to her flat without having to play Moses and part the sea of reporters and photographers camping in front of her door proved to be a nigh-Herculean task. Moving out had to be timed on the dot between the last person leaving at night and the first arriving before dawn.

At least Harry's place was quiet.

"It's a battle that cannot be won, but thank you for defending my brother against the media," Mycroft had said once.

"It was Moriarty's doing, but nobody wants to see that. How can people believe one bloody article that claims to reveal the truth about Sherlock, when there were literally hundreds of articles over the past months reporting all of his recently solved cases?"

John was animated, pacing about and gesticulating with both hands. Darn it, but it felt good to move around, instead of cramping yourself into one tiny apartment, because you cannot stand another round of flashlights going off in your face.

"Limited memory capacity and blind trust in the media's omniscience would be my guess," Mycroft said, voice toneless.

"I don't understand it. They won't even listen to someone who has spent eighteen bloody months under the same roof with that bloody maniac! Do they think I am biased or get some sort of pension for holding fast to the tale of Sherlock Holmes, genius extraordinaire?" He threw up his hands in a gesture he might have picked up from Sherlock. "Nobody ever bloody _thinks_. Oh God, I am beginning to understand how Sherlock must have felt all the time."

John scrubbed his hands over his face, stopped, and peered at Mycroft over his fingertips. The man looked his everyday, business-as-usual self that nobody would have guessed at the recent loss of his only sibling, any more than the possible responsibility he felt for it.

"Remind me: why aren't you saying anything to deny their false assumptions?"

Mycroft gave a small laugh, as if to emphasize the amount of disbelief he awarded John for asking the question; the way he did when John alluded to Sherlock having friends.

"I am not exactly popular with the press," he said.

Oh, now it was John's turn to be incredulous. "This is about your brother! Don't you want his name cleared?"

It struck John as odd that Mycroft would appear so unruffled, after he had confessed the mistake he had made in bargaining with Moriarty and all but asked for John's forgiveness, hoping he would let Sherlock know he was sorry.

As Mycroft glanced at his pocket watch, John could see for the first time how pinched the lines around his eyes had become.

"That hardly matters now. The damage is done."

"John was here again," Mycroft said the moment Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"He would have been. His smell is all over the room," Sherlock replied, approaching the desk.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him. "It's not that distinct."

"It's enough." Sherlock snatched the newspaper from the armchair before dropping into it. He flipped through it, skimming articles with all too-familiar headlines. _From Hero to Hypocrite. The Fall of Reichenbach "Genius" Sherlock Holmes._ Sherlock scoffed at the double entendre. Scouring the papers for the name Moriarty revealed nothing. No one asked about Richard Brooke. As if he had disappeared.

Mycroft eyed Sherlock for a moment, then took something out of his drawer and slid it over the desk. It was the cell phone he had thrown away on the roof of St. Bart's. "Henry picked it up when he checked the scene."

"Keep it. A dead man can't be found running around with GPS."

"Don't you want to look at it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and leaned forward to snatch it from the table. The display informed him of weak batteries and four new text messages.

_From: John Watson  
Okay, this feels weird. You can't be dead.  
Don't be. Please?_

From: John Watson  
Quit fooling me. You can come back now.

From: John Watson  
I'm gonna punch you if you don't.

From: John Watson  
Ye Gods, I'm glad nobody sees me texting  
a dead man.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. There was no fooling John, was there? But where reading John's name had stilled Sherlock's breath, the next message froze him to his spot.

_From: Blocked number  
After Catch Me If You Can, are we playing Hide-and-Seek now? – JM_

Sherlock's eyes shot up in search of Mycroft's.

"I received one, too." He tapped his cell phone a few times, opening the message. "'_I've read the papers. My condolences, Mr Holmes._' it says. Signed _JM_, of course."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. anyone can send text messages. Whoever took Moriarty's body got a hold of his mobile phone and used it to contact the numbers stored within it. To keep up the illusion that Moriarty was still alive."

"I've been thinking." John once confronted him, confusion and distrust battling in his features. "You know what I don't get? As much as you like talking about Sherlock, your little sessions with Moriarty can't have been all about exchanging mutually beneficial information."

"What do you want to say? That I had a hand in my brother's downfall? And why, pray tell, would I do that?"

John had no answer. He just needed someone to blame.

Mycroft would have thought mentioning the computer code was enough of a giveaway, because – think about it – who could imagine that only one key was needed to crack all the databases and security systems in the world, regardless of architecture, operating system and underlying language? It would be a miraculous thing indeed.

Playing along with Moriarty's ruse, he had planted all the information Sherlock had authorized. A dangerous game, tiptoeing in the dark around spider threads that could tip off explosions on a national scale.

The difficulty lay in determining who was tricking whom. Scenario A: Moriarty had thought his own act convincing enough to fool Mycroft; or, Scenario B: Moriarty had seen through Mycroft's cards and merely acted unsuspecting. It all boiled down to how far he had planned ahead.

And how safe Sherlock would be.

Day in, day out, Mycroft watched from afar how nations squabbled like children over the exact line of territories, oil mining rights, or nuclear testing sites. His people corresponded with soldiers in the North Korean military about their supreme commander, gathered up-to-date reports about the refurbishment process in Russia's strategic missile forces, or met with Netanyahu's advisers on whether to launch airstrikes against Iran and how soon.

In his line of work, dealing with information that could ruin entire countries, knowing what to pass on and when to appear ignorant, was essential.

Nothing in his career, however, had prepared him for dealing with his brother and his heart-broken friend after their separation.

He understood that Sherlock had needed John to witness his little magic trick, or convincing him of Sherlock's death might have been futile, but why traumatise the man so?

The shock of losing Sherlock had cracked John to the core; his armour still held up, but the increased tremor in his hand, the slumped shoulders and the vacant gaze could not have been more telling if they had labels pointing to them.

Mycroft poured himself another glass of brandy to wash away the caring sentiment.

Then, of course, there was his reckless brother.

"You've been out again," Mycroft said, and took a sip. He avoided looking at Sherlock; with his wind-tousled hair and storm-clouded eyes, he looked like Caravaggio's Medusa. In that condition, he should be kept far away from the general populace, lopped-off or not.

"I had to see him," Sherlock said, pulling the scarf from his neck and throwing it across the back of a chair. He bristled with a sense of urgency that was only now beginning to unveil itself. The past days had found Sherlock rather subdued, having retreated into his head. He would have seemed shaken to anyone who was unfamiliar with his moods, when in reality his brain was abuzz with activity, thoughts zipping through old neural pathways and paving new ones.

Mycroft told himself he would not reprimand Sherlock, who was, like John, coping with the loss of something dear to him, but it was concern that made him speak.

"What if he had seen you? Or anyone else had, for that matter."

He turned around for a second to put his glass on the polished sideboard and the next, Sherlock was standing right beside him.

"Don't you see, Mycroft?" Sherlock clamped his fingers around his brother's arms; Mycroft could feel him trembling. "It's driving me crazy to lock myself up in here, _especially_ if Moriarty's henchmen are still out there. It's like giving in, like admitting he has won."

Mycroft felt it was his turn to grasp Sherlock's arms, restricted movement or no, but softer, a mere caress. Slowly, the tension subsided.

"Consider it for a moment," he said. "Who knows if Moriarty's men are not going to finish the task they have been set to, once they find out you're alive?"

Sherlock growled, released Mycroft with a slight push and resumed pacing the Indian rugs. Mycroft straightened his suit, leaned against his desk and waited.

After two minutes and thirty-nine seconds, Sherlock said: "I have decided."

"What about, dearest brother?"

"You said I should not roam about where anyone might recognise me, but I cannot stand it. You cannot leash me here. I am going insane. I _need_ to work this out. And if being on the street means endangering John or Mrs. Hudson, I cannot do it here."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That I go abroad. With your help, I can disappear on the continent and find Moriarty's people from there."

Mycroft nodded. That solution would ensure he stayed away from any situation that might tickle his impulsiveness to reveal himself to John, have tea with Mrs. Hudson, or make prank calls to Lestrade. It was enough that he unsettled poor Miss Hooper by his infrequent visits to the lab.

With his brow furrowed, lips pursed and gaze settled beyond the Gainsborough painting on the wall, Sherlock was sifting through memory. He might be thinking of the six months Miss Adler had vanished from his life and calculating the amount of time he himself would need.

"Whatever you request, brother-mine. Just say the word."


End file.
